Live For Me
by Winterlyn Dow
Summary: Chapters and events from "If I Should Die" imagined from Jules' POV. Cover image is how I picture Jules.
1. Chapter 1 Live For Me

**Standard disclaimer about not owning these characters, referencing and including dialogue from the book, and giving full credit for the creation of the characters and that referenced dialogue to the author, Amy Plum**.

Chapter 1

I sent a text message—one I felt was _very_ thoughtful. I knew Kate would be ravenous for any news at all, even if the news was that there was no news, yet I received no reply. This had me ruminating much more than I would like to admit; ruminating enough that a less kind observer might call it "brooding." Hadn't I said that I was off to find Vincent? Vincent, who was bound to the malevolent Violette somewhere in the bowels of a numa stronghold? Didn't that imply some degree of danger to my person? Weren't friends supposed to be concerned for the safety and welfare of one another? Where was my "Be careful, Jules!" text or my "Good luck, Jules!" text? Some sort of acknowledgement would have been only polite (though in the few seconds of honesty I allowed myself before brushing it off, I had to admit that what I wanted was not a text but a call, with Kate's voice at the other end).

I leaned back in my chair and imagined her frantic tone as she begged me not to go, not to endanger myself by getting too close to Violette. I allowed myself to hear a slight undertone of jealousy at the idea of my leaving her side for Violette's, even though I was going to face an army of murderous numa and not to ask for a date. I wanted to hear that though Vince was important that I, too, was important to Kate—too important to risk. In this fantasy, I bravely reassured her that I would be careful, but was determined to continue the mission as planned because no risk was too great if it might bring Vince back to us (and in the process, save the Revenants and indeed the world from the tyranny of an embittered, 500-year-old undead adolescent bigot). I was heroic, yet humble. I was courageous in the face of almost certain destruction. I was resolved to do my duty despite her heart-wrenching pleas.

I could practically hear Kate's voice, so obviously struggling to contain the sobs fighting to burst forth in a machine gun staccato of anguish. In a bare whisper, she said, "There _are_ risks too great, Jules. Any risk that could tear you from me is too great."

My eyes half-closed, one corner of my mouth began to curl up, so lost was I in this vignette I had created in my mind. Jeanne's voice startled me with a chiding cluck as I absently picked at my breakfast.

"Jules, do not play with your food—eat, my lamb! You will need your strength to find our Vince. And why do you have that silly look on your face?"

Her admonition drew me instantly into the present and I pulled the corners of my mouth down as I remembered that Kate had _not_ called me to beg me to stay and had not texted with me with concern. In fact, she hadn't responded in any way at all.

I wanted to bang my fist on the table and shout, "Damn her!" but as soon as the thought struck me, I felt guilty. She was caught up in grief so intense, how could she be expected to respond to a text? I had never given her any reason to view me as anything more than a flirt or, in the vernacular of her sister, a "player." It was unfair of me to judge Kate based on my own unrequited feelings since I had taken pains to be certain she did not know I had even had them. My mental outburst made me feel petty and unkind, an unflattering contrast to the noble and stalwart Jules I had only just been imagining myself to be.

I frowned again, this time at myself for allowing a girl to preoccupy my thoughts so much that I was distracted from the mission at hand. What was wrong with me? Girls did not upset me! They delighted me, yes. They brought brief moments of joy into my life. They kept me from boredom, they inspired my art, and they filled moments that might otherwise have been lonely. They provided distraction when I needed to forget how dark the world could be sometimes. They decorated my arm when I needed a plus-one at a gallery party or nightclub and they frequently warmed my bed afterwards. They filled my arms when I needed closeness and gave me something to gaze at when I sat in my regular seat at the Café Sainte-Lucie. They sometimes accused me of callousness and spurned me, but even this I found amusing. All of this they did but never did they _upset_ me. Yet here I was, upset. It troubled me that I felt an ache in the center of my chest when I thought of Kate—me, a soldier who had died in battle, quite literally, as well as a revenant who had endured a hundred deaths since. I was a warrior (some might even say a hero), not some moony romance novel antagonist!

"_Vous êtes absurde_!" I muttered to myself.

"Did you say something, _mon cher_?" Jeanne asked from across the kitchen, her back turned to me as she searched for something in a cabinet, stretching up onto her toes to reach for a canister.

"No, nothing," I assured her, getting up from my uneaten eggs and croissant to assist her.

"_Merci_," she sighed gratefully as I pulled down the heavy pottery for her, a light coating of dust on its top alerting me that it had sat unused for some time on that high shelf. "You are such a good boy, Jules."

I met her eyes briefly before turning away.

"No," I thought ruefully, visions of my best friend's girl entering unbidden into my head. "No, I am not."


	2. Chapter 2 Live For Me

Chapter 2

Being a part of Jean-Baptiste's merry band of revenants had always prevented me from getting into too much trouble. I committed only a fraction of the mischief I might have otherwise, so engaged was I in saving Paris from the misdeeds of the numa. There was barely time for much else. I painted when I could and I spent time in the company of some lovely girls who kept loneliness and despair from creeping in when they might otherwise have overwhelmed me, but mostly, I tried to fulfill my destiny. Without JB's guidance, my volant spirit would most likely have been hanging out in Katy Perry's dressing room or engaging in some other completely hedonistic and unworthy pastime. As it was, I was too busy while volant to dream of such things, instead serving as fortune-teller-on-patrol with my kindred while we walked the streets of the city. Seeing into the future, just around the corner of the present moment, I was able to guide their good deeds like a veritable undead Boy Scout. In this way, I tried to make my mark on the world, searching the streets for souls in need of rescue. That we were all also searching for that little hit we all craved was another matter entirely, and one I don't think bears discussion in this context.

A volant spirit may travel where it pleases, and while my body was dormant, it had pleased my volant spirit to be near Kate. After Violette committed Vince's body to her twisted funeral pyre, I felt a sense of obligation to protect Kate, in whatever way I could. However, it was not obligation alone that drew me to her. I don't think she ever knew I was there—she could not hear me the way she had heard Vince. But _I_ knew I was there, watching, vigilant, ready to sound the alarm if she was ever threatened, and this gave me a sense of purpose and a sense of peace.

I won't pretend I wasn't tempted to spend all of my free time drifting at the foot of her bed, watching her sleep, listening for sighs that might indicate that she was dreaming, but I couldn't bring myself to violate her privacy that way. I spent most of my time on her street or sometimes on her balcony, surveying the surrounding area, looking for anyone who seemed threatening. I tried to tell myself that I owed this to Vince—that he would want me to do whatever I could to protect this girl who had won his heart since he was now unable to perform this duty himself. While that was true, it was only part of the motivation for my new hobby. The rest of my Kate-watching derived from the sharp pain I felt when I was not near her. My insistence on spending as much time as possible away from La Maison to serve as Kate's spirit-bodyguard was as much selfish as it was altruistic, easing my own pain as I tried to guarantee her safety (a setup that Georgia might call a "win-win" as she always seemed to have a completely irreverent, very American, and wholly appropriate turn of phrase in her back pocket to apply to any situation at a moment's notice). It was also partly to blame for my slow recovery after my most recent reanimation.

We bardia try to stay near our bodies as the time to reanimate approaches, within the same room if possible. It's not a process that catches us unawares—there is a sort of buzzing that occurs when the spirit is closing the gap in time until it can inhabit its dormant body again. That buzzing gets stronger, more obvious as the time draws closer and finally culminates in what I can most accurately describe as almost an electric shock, akin to having a Taser applied to your skin. Typically, when a volant bardia feels the buzzing intensify, he knows it is time to go home. Not being near your body does not prevent reanimation but it does have consequences. It's as if a cord is attached at one end to our volant spirit and at the other end to our body. The cord begins to tighten and reels us back in so that we may inhabit our familiar flesh again in a sort of metaphysical tug-of-war. The further away a spirit wanders from its dormant body, the harder it becomes to tug it back. This results in some profound weakness and exhaustion once we reanimate. My spirit being reeled back from Kate's balcony (where I had certainly not been peeping through her windows, except maybe just a little) had left me in my current state: weak, drained, and pissy.

Food definitely helped in the recovery of not only my strength but also my spirits after three days of disembodiment, but I was having a hard time stomaching what was, I'm sure, the delicious breakfast Jeanne had made for me. Typically, I could eat enough for three people after reanimation but this time, I seemed to have some angst-induced anorexia. I had eaten my typical light snack immediately upon awakening and then a few wedges of pear that had been sliced and left in my room (Jeanne always managed to find the ripest, softest pears in Paris for me), but since then, nothing. I knew I was compounding my problem and that I was unlikely to recover my full strength in a reasonable amount of time if I didn't eat, but I was just too distracted.

I tried to refocus on my breakfast after helping Jeanne with her bit of crockery (the canister, she told me, was to hold flour. Though she already had a canister of flour sitting on her countertop, she needed a second because she found she was running through flour much more rapidly with the frequent visitors we were now seeing at La Maison. The new social schedule necessitated a larger number of scones, cakes and croissants than ever before. Her light chatter about baking and the flour consumption of the house might have normally made the situation feel normal and routine but today, it only seemed to illustrate how out of sorts my own thoughts were compared to our normal routine). One bite of scrambled eggs with Gruyère was all I could manage before I finally gave up pretending I had an appetite.

"_Ridicule_," I grumbled, snarling at my plate of wasted food.

Disgusted, I raged at myself internally. Jules Marchenoir behaving like a teenaged girl in the throes of her first crush? Ambrose would laugh until he suffocated if he could have seen me. I tried to tell myself that I could not allow my mood and my appetite be dictated by a pretty face, but it felt like a farce. I was trying to convince myself that it was as simple as a little crush even though I knew it was much, much more.

The universe, it seemed, had a sense of humor. It saw fit to arrange it so that Vince, single since the second World War, and myself, never seriously attached to _anyone _(even as a human), would both fall in love, not only at the same time, but with the same girl.


	3. Chapter 3 Live For Me

Chapter 3

I escaped the kitchen before Jeanne could lecture me on the importance of a healthy breakfast. Striding through the large foyer with my head down, I nearly collided with a visibly excited Gaspard. He seemed in a rush to get up the stairs.

"Gaspard!" I exclaimed while throwing my hands onto his shoulders, as much to steady us as we reeled from our near collision as to slow him down so that I might inquire about his agitated state.

I sensed immediately that something important had happened. Since there was only one event of importance being discussed in the house over the past few days, I knew it must involve Vince. Fear gripped me deep inside my gut and left my throat with a dull, burning dryness. I dreaded the question I had to ask; worried the answer would leave me devastated.

"What's happened? Is it Vince?" I managed to croak out.

"Yes, yes!" Gaspard answered in a distracted rasp, looking toward the staircase. "It's Vincent! He's back. His volant spirit has been allowed to return to us—briefly. A few days only, but he's here!"

I didn't understand him at first. My mind took a few beats to release the idea of "I'm going on a mission to find my kindred" and replace it with "my kindred is here, now!" When it finally did sink in, I gasped with shock and looked questioningly at Gaspard.

"Vince is _here_, now? Truly?"

"Yes, yes!" he exclaimed again, then called to me as he rushed up the stairs, "Now, I must go find Ambrose. Vincent is in the library at this very moment!"

Without hesitation, I ran the remaining length of the foyer that separated me from the library doors, and then burst through them, trying to contain my elation. My heart was hammering in my chest with fear that it was somehow a mistake or that I had perhaps misunderstood what Gaspard had said.

"Just saw Gaspard," I panted, surveying the faces in the room for confirmation of what I had been told. "Is it true? Vincent's back?"

I felt a familiar tickle in the back of my head, and then heard my friend's voice as clearly as if he had stood next to me.

_It's true, mon ami. Violette released me to be her little volant spy for a few days while the guérisseur tries to figure out what went wrong with her power grab._

I was nearly overcome with emotion, so powerful was the effect of once again hearing the voice of this brother who I had believed was forever lost to me. Choking back a sob, I looked across the library to see Kate, attired in her usual style—faded gray V-neck t-shirt and well-worn jeans—looking anything but usual. Her face glowed, her joy nearly palpable. It was too much for me to withstand. I found myself in front of her and then I was holding her tightly, thinking too many things all at once and unable to adequately express it all. Instead of trying, I simply said the thing that was at the forefront of my mind.

"Oh, man, am I glad we got you back!"

And it was true. I was glad Vince was here, not bound to Violette's side like a pathetic volant puppy on a leash. And I was glad Kate was here, so obviously happy because she could be near Vince once again. And I was glad Kate was wearing that soft, clingy V-neck that covered nearly everything but suggested much more. And I was irritated that my eyes were drawn to that lightly tanned "v" of perfect skin above her neckline when I ought to be too preoccupied with the return of my best friend to notice such things. And I was feeling guilty that I was acutely aware of every contour of her body as I pressed her against me.

"Jules! Oxygen!" Kate squeaked breathlessly.

Vince sounded amused as he scolded me. _Jules, try not to manhandle my girlfriend! She bruises easily._

"How does he know that?" I wondered to myself before recognizing it as a joke.

I felt a pang of guilt again, knowing that Vince trusted me completely and that his statement was meant to be funny, a way to lighten the mood and help me through this emotionally overwhelming situation. It was his way of saying, "See Jules? Everything is fine. I can joke, just as always, so there is no need to feel hopeless about the fact that I was betrayed by one of the oldest of our kindred and that my body was turned to ash. We can still laugh together!" This was Vince, comforting me by keeping things lighthearted, ironically kidding me about pawing his girlfriend, never dreaming he had any cause for concern.

This perplexing and uncomfortable mix of joy and guilt and lust and sadness coursed through me and threatened to paralyze me if I stopped to consider it so instead, I dismissed my girlfriend-death-gripping behavior by telling Kate I was sorry with a smile as I reluctantly released her.

"I'm just so happy to see you both," I explained, which was true but was not the only reason I had wrapped her in my arms, "and you're the only one I can actually touch."

And the only one I wanted to.

I silently cursed my lack of restraint, fearing that those in the room (especially Kate and Vince) could read the joy and despair I was feeling simultaneously and might easily guess at the source of my warring sentiments. I promised myself I would be more careful and guard my feelings closely from that point on. In this way, I could save us all from discomfort and embarrassment.

Kate laughed, a gentle, sweet sound, and said, "That's okay" as she tugged on the hem of her t-shirt, covering the exposed navel I didn't realize I was staring at until it was once again hidden by the clingy cloth.

For the second time that day, I felt one corner of my mouth curl upward as I allowed my eyes to travel from Kate's hand (resting as it was over her navel) to her hip, drinking in the shape of her silhouette. My imagination had my hand resting on that curve, pulling her back to me gently as her eyes turned upward to gaze into mine.

I snapped out of my private reverie when I heard Jean-Baptiste's voice saying, "…we need to ask you more about Violette and her plans."

"Rein it in, man!" I told myself sternly, hoping I hadn't missed anything important while I'd been daydreaming like a schoolboy.

My facial expression while berating myself must have seemed odd to Kate because she quirked up one eyebrow, looking at me as if to ask why I was frowning when I should be jumping for joy. I quickly distracted her before she could voice the question.

"They don't need us right now," I said, then looking to the air, continued, "Vince, let's go to my room, okay?"

_Sure, Jules. I'd like to catch up with you and Kate without having to hear the triumvirate discuss the apocalypse in the background the entire time._

I grabbed Kate's hand before anyone could change their mind and pulled her along behind me to my attic bedroom which Charlotte had lovingly dubbed _la mansarde de l'artiste_—the artist's garret.


	4. Chapter 4 Live For Me

Chapter 4

I loved this room with its soft sunlight perfect for drawing and its surfaces all covered with papers and pencils and charcoals, sketches piled into tall stacks, watercolors tacked to the plaster walls and rolled into cardboard tubes leaning precariously in one corner.

My heart quickened as I remembered that several of those sketches and watercolors were of Kate, some only half-realized pencil drawings of her profile, some completed paintings; Kate's back turned as she looked out over the Seine, Kate's head down, the tips of her hair barely brushing the pages of the book she was reading, Kate reclining into the soft cushions of the vintage sofa that sat across the room from where I had just entered, her gaze playful, a hint of a smile on her lips. As quickly as I was panicked, I was flooded with relief, recalling that I had not left those doodles and paintings out where they could be seen by anyone but had stored them carefully into several of those cardboard tubes, well out of sight. I congratulated myself for this preventative action which had surely saved me the discomfort of having to explain my obvious obsession with a particular subject.

Kate was surveying my space with a look of awe and I wished one of my undead superpowers was mind-reading. She was an art lover with discerning taste and a real appreciation for talent, and I wanted to know what she thought of the paintings and drawings I had chosen to hang on my walls, most of which were my own work. These were my little bright spots to savor and contemplate and lose myself in, especially during dark times. I felt too awkward to ask though, not wanting her to think I was fishing for compliments, so instead I studied her face and tried to guess at her opinion. It seemed to be generally positive so I contented myself with that and led her to my sofa, situated beneath the skylight.

Kate settled herself, leaning into the garnet cushions and looking so very much as I had pictured her in my head; as I had painted her. The sunlight filtered through the frosted glass of the skylight and played on her face, giving her a glow that seemed almost ethereal. I turned away as I sat next to her, trying to quiet the desire to grab my sketch book and pencils and start drawing her right then. I breathed deeply in, and then spoke to Vince.

"So, how are you?" I asked him.

_That's a difficult question to answer, mon ami. I'm ecstatic that I am here, able to see my family and my love, but knowing that my time here is short… And even if it wasn't, knowing I am essentially a ghost… I'm trying not to fall into despair, Jules. I don't want to burden you all with my own sadness when I know you are facing such danger. And I have to think of Kate. If I fall apart, then…_

He paused but I understood him completely.

_How has she been, Jules?_

The worry in his voice was undeniable. This small thing, this simple tone of voice, told the deeper tale of who Vince was. Murdered in an act of betrayal almost inconceivable to us, physically destroyed and essentially now no more than an enslaved spirit, his concern was for someone else. This was why Kate loved him. This was why I was such a terrible friend.

I wanted to somehow comfort him, or at least not add to his distress. I didn't think it would do much good to regale him with tales of Kate's endless tears and sorrow, especially not now that he was here and she was so much happier. Instead, I wanted him to see that his presence, even as a volant spirit, had brought her some happiness and peace. I had to do this for my friend, even as I had to push away the thought that it was _only_ Vince that seemed to be able to coax this improvement in her mood. I figured Kate could best tell him how she was in her own words, so I let her.

"And you, Kate?" I prompted, taking her warm hand and clasping it between my own.

"Fine," she sighed to us both, then to me, said, "Thanks for texting with the non-update this morning."

"Finally!" I thought, feeling some small sense of vindication. "She acknowledges the text!"

It was certainly a silly thing to be concerned about, especially in light of the present situation, but it still gave me a minor amount of relief from the consternation I felt during breakfast, brooding over my unanswered message. I did not allow myself to be bothered by hypocrisy, choosing not to recall the hundreds of texts I had deleted, unanswered, from my own phone over the past several years. Texts from girls with names like Cécile, Marie-Agnès, Adèle, Jacqueline, Emilie, and Monique.

"The last couple of days have been hellish," she continued. "Vincent, I was so worried about you."

By the way Kate lifted her eyebrows slightly and gazed off into space, I could tell Vince was speaking to her. It was frustrating not to know what was being said.

"Are you okay?" she asked him, her voice heavy with worry. "Did Violette hurt you?"

It was a question I was also wanted to ask but I didn't want to intrude on their moment to badger Kate for his answer. She continued looking into the distance, past my bed, seeming to stare at a nude pencil drawing hanging on the wall. I knew by the soft, unfocused way her eyes drifted that she wasn't seeing my art but rather was picturing Vince's face as he spoke directly into her head.

Kate opened her mouth to say something then stopped herself. I wondered what direction their conversation was taking and wished again for the ability to read minds. Unable to participate in their dialogue, I spent my time memorizing the feel of her palm in mine. Soon, I was rewarded for my patience with her spoken thought.

"Doesn't it feel weird to know you're not the champion?" she asked slowly, as if feeling her way in the dark. "I mean, are you disappointed? Upset?"

She pulled her hand from my grasp and placed it over her heart in a gesture that said she would be upset for Vince, if that's what he needed. My hands felt colder, empty. I rubbed them across my thighs, feeling the soft fabric of my old blue jeans as I mulled the question she had posed.

"Upset? Ha!" I laughed to myself. "He's _got_ to be intensely relieved. I know I would be!"

How worthless would it be to become the champion and then have your only act as the great hope of the world be to cede your power to your most dangerous enemy? I wondered if Vince had even considered that yet. If he had been the chosen one, everything and everyone he cared for might be destroyed by the very power bestowed upon him. It was possible that very moment, instead of hanging out in my room, we would have been fighting (and dying) in the streets of Paris, with no answer to the power of the newly unstoppable Violette. Upset? Disappointed? He should be dancing for joy! At least, as much as a volant spirit _could _dance. We all should.

"I never thought I'd say this, man," I prefaced my words, "but I, for one, am glad you turned out to be just like the rest of us. Otherwise, Violette would already be stomping around Paris like some kind of crossbreed numa Hulk."

I knew Vince would appreciate the reference since we had recently watched _The Avengers_ together in our home theater ("Puny god!" Ha!) Only, in our post-movie banter, we had decided that Ambrose (not Violette) was the Hulk. I, of course, was Iron Man.

Realizing suddenly that knowing he had no special powers above and beyond those already accorded to revenants was likely to be of little comfort to him in light of his current circumstances, I quickly conceded, "Although the present situation isn't exactly optimal."

The room grew silent and I worried that perhaps my words were too insensitive. Vince tended to be the most sensitive in the house even though I was the artist. I silently cursed myself for not governing my tongue more wisely. I certainly didn't want to kick a guy while he was down. Or disembodied.

My internal criticism was interrupted by Kate's whisper.

"Me too," she breathed, looking so fragile, so very sad. She seemed near tears as she wrapped her arms around herself.

My muscles tensed with the strain of keeping my hands resting on my thighs when all I wanted to do was place them on her arms in a gesture of comfort. Suddenly, her sadness seemed to be replaced with… consideration; a sort of thoughtfulness. She was shaking her head slightly, as if denying something, but her eyes had a longing in them as if she desired what was being offered. She was in conflict, but about what, I hadn't a clue.

She looked into my eyes just briefly, studying me and weighing… something. Before I could wonder what soliloquy of Vince's had caused all these fascinating facial expressions, he was revealing his intentions to me and I'm sure I had some interesting facial expressions of my own.


	5. Chapter 5 Live For Me

**A/N I originally wrote this chapter to parallel with the corresponding chapter in _If I Should Die_ but found as I typed and edited that it was growing much longer than previous chapters of my story. I have decided to split the chapter into two, which enables me to keep some consistency in chapter length but also post the update a bit sooner than if I waited until I was done editing the entire chapter as originally written. I found what felt to be a natural stopping point and ended there. It seems to pan out as all action in this chapter and all repercussion in the next chapter. Enjoy!**

Chapter 5

Vincent was talking to me, carefully picking his way around a sticky subject, struggling to find the right words. His thoughts were coming out of him haltingly.

_Jules, I hate to ask… You can say no if it's too weird for you, but… I just really need to… Feel her, again. Could I… I mean, would it be okay with you if I… used you to hold her?_

I understood what my friend wanted immediately. He was awkwardly asking my permission to _possess_ me. He wanted to inhabit my body so he could use my arms to physically embrace Kate. He was asking _me_ to hold his girl. Or, rather, he was asking to hold his girl _through _me.

I willed myself not to show any emotion but it was difficult. Hadn't I just been longing to place my hands on her arms? It was as if my desire had been projected into the universe and the universe was coming back to me with the reply, "Sure, okay. Let's try that."

I didn't answer Vince's request directly but instead gave my permission by teasing Kate.

"So, Kate, will you accept me as a surrogate hugger?" I laughed, arching my eyebrow and giving her a comic leer, as if to show her that I wasn't taking any of this seriously.

I was taking all of this very seriously.

My mind was racing—I had never been possessed myself and had only rarely possessed others, and then only when they were so incapacitated that they required my strength temporarily for survival. My most recent experience was a few months back when I had possessed Ambrose in order to prevent his muscle-bound corpse from being destroyed by the numa. Because he was technically dead at the time, I hadn't felt strange about occupying his body. His mind wasn't in there with me—it was dormant. I didn't have a lot of experience with the ins and outs of possession, especially on the receiving end. I wasn't sure how much awareness I would retain and what sort of ability to control my own actions I would still have. Once I gave my body over to Vince's volant spirit, what sort of control would I maintain? Would I even really know he was there? Would he know I was?

I looked into Kate's eyes, holding back a smile fueled by nerves and the delight I felt when thinking of holding her. What I saw in her face—doubt and reluctance coupled with longing (for Vince, not me) caused a sudden shift in my mood. The smile that had started to form died and melted from my face just as Kate looked past me, asking Vince a question that sounded full of heartbreak.

"Will I ever have you back again?"

She cocked her head to the side as if trying to listen closely to his reply. Whatever he said to her seemed to cause her eyes to become shiny with unshed tears. She then nodded resolutely before those tears could begin to spill.

I frowned at her distress, ready to reach up and stroke her cheek, to provide whatever comfort I could. However, before I could lift my hand to her face, I felt a chill and then lost my ability to control my own body. I was looking into Kate's eyes and the pain I saw there was hard to bear. I felt as if I had been burned by that pain. Like a coward, I tried to look away, to find some respite. I found I could not—Vince was staring into the eyes of his love and I was staring right along with him, like it or not.

After a second more, Kate shifted her gaze downward and fell into my arms. I wanted to stroke her hair, bury my face in the thick chestnut mane tumbling over her shoulders, and inhale the clean scent of her shampoo but I found myself instead pressing her tightly to me.

This difference in what I was willing my body to do and what it was actually doing was causing a feeling similar to motion sickness and I felt a mild sense of nausea. It was like reading a book in a moving car. Then, incredibly, I heard my own voice in my ears. Vince was forcing air up from my lungs and across my vocal cords, producing words I had not thought.

"I was so afraid, Kate. I thought I would never see you again," he said with my voice, then went on to express his fears about being held captive by Violette, kept from his love against his will.

I couldn't help but wonder why anyone would waste time talking about fear and trepidation that was already in the past. If I were in control of my own tongue, I would merely have said, "I love you. I love you. I love you. Oh, God, how I love you!"

Because nothing else mattered in that moment.

As I was contemplating Vince's wasted opportunity, I heard Kate's voice gush breathlessly, "I missed you. I needed you. I was afraid you were gone."

She seemed to be struggling to say what she needed to say before tears rendered her incapable of speech. I knew her words were for Vince, yet I couldn't stop my heart from pounding as I heard them, butterflies fluttering in my chest as if the words were meant solely for me. Vince was controlling my words and my movements but my heart, it seemed, still belonged to me.

Kate's hands slowly moved up my spine until they found the back of my head. Her delicate fingers twined themselves into my hair and I felt it, every touch, every movement, the heat of her hands and the beat of her heart. I felt the electric tingle as those fingers trailed along my skin, the tension on the locks as she pulled at them, and the rush in my own head as I realized that though I did not control my body at this moment, I was keenly aware of everything happening to it.

Had I been in control of my own motor functions, I would have closed my eyes and sat quietly for a moment, drinking this feeling in, the pure pleasure of her touch. As I considered this, I suddenly became aware of soft lips pressed against mine. My eyes closed and try as I might, I could not open them to confirm this wondrous occurrence was really happening. As an artist, I considered sight to be my favorite of the five senses and my inability to use it now was maddening.

I wanted to shout at Vince, "Open your eyes, man!" but my lips remained on Kate's, even as I tasted the salt of her tears, now spilling down her cheeks and into my mouth.

With the salt on my tongue somehow fueling my desire, I put my hands in Kate's thick hair and pressed my mouth harder against hers. No, I didn't do that. Vince did that. It wasn't my desire, it was his. I wasn't putting my hands in Kate's hair, Vince was putting my hands in Kate's hair. Vince wove my fingers into the brown locks and Vince made my lips search Kate's mouth, earning small gasp from her as she responded to the kiss.

I felt like a voyeur and a puppet all at once. I was forced to bear witness to their passion for each other while experiencing the passion myself, as if it were all my own. As if Kate was responding to _my_ kiss. And maybe she was, sort of. I was struggling to sort out what I was feeling and wanting to ignore the part of my brain that insisted I think at all when what I really wanted to do was just be in the moment with Kate.

My hands were feeling the warm, smooth skin of Kate's neck as Vince caused me to pull her closer, closer, so close. Her body was molded to mine, her scent mingled with my own, the taste of her mouth filling mine until I wasn't sure if we were three people or two or just one.

Suddenly, I was rebelling. My head was swimming with the effort to make sense of what was happening to us, my heart was pounding, gripped with a desire I could not deny or control, and I couldn't determine how much of my feelings were my own and how much belonged solely to Vince. Was I feeling this burning need or was that Vince? Was Kate kissing Vince or me? Or both of us? Was her rapid, shallow breathing a function of a completely cerebral consideration of her passion for Vince or a purely physical reaction to me? These were _my_ hands on her body, _my _mouth kissing hers, _my _head bent over hers and _my_ chest pressed tightly against hers. It was all me, even if I wasn't calling the shots.

I couldn't stand not knowing the truth of what she felt and who she was responding to but I was afraid to know the truth at the same time. If no part of Kate desired any part of me, then what was I do to with the tingling of my mouth that she had been kissing and my scalp that she had been touching? How was I to subdue the aching, gnawing need for her that had planted itself firmly in my center and threatened to go supernova any second?

My brain let out a wordless, silent scream of frustration. I felt my body respond to it with the tiniest flinch and my eyes flew open, seeing at first only one closed eye with its long lashes and a small patch of creamy skin with a creeping pink flush to it, slightly out of focus because Kate's face was so very close.

A second later, her eyes opened and peered into mine… and Vince's. What she saw there caused the flush of her face to deepen as she gently raked through my hair with those fingers that had, only moments before, been clutching me so determinedly that it bordered on painful. Then she put her palms flatly on my chest and pushed me away.


	6. Chapter 6 Live For Me

Chapter 6

Kate separated herself from me, leaning away as she studied my eyes. I felt a deep chill, almost an involuntary shudder, and then a sort of... looseness. It was like the sensation you have when you have worn clothes a little too snug for you and then you shed them to put on pajama pants or sweats. I felt less... suffocated. I then regained control of my limbs and my speech. I could open and close my eyes by the force of my own will. Vince was gone (at least, he was gone from inside of me) and I was wholly myself again.

I looked at Kate and could not help feeling rejected. And then there was this crushing sense of loss, not just because only seconds before I had been warmed by her nearness but because I had quite literally experienced the depth of her feelings for Vince and I recognized that she did not have the same connection to me, no matter how much I wanted her to. I was being forced to say goodbye to the dream that somehow there was a way she and I could be together and accept the reality that she was in love with my kindred and I would never matter to her the way he did.

Kate grabbed my hands, grasping them in her own, and blurted out an apology, though for what, I wasn't sure. I felt genuine confusion as I ticked off my mental checklist, searching for an answer. Was she sorry she had given me a taste of something not meant for me? Sorry for stoking the flames of my already unbearably intense, unrequited passion? Sorry for using me to ease her pain while increasing my own? Sorry that she had kissed me or sorry that she had stopped?

"I didn't mean... I forgot who you..." she stammered.

I hated the pity in her voice. It felt like an insult and it pissed me off. I was angry at her because she saw _me_ and chose to pull away. Bitterness breaking over me like ocean waves, I pulled my hands out of her grasp and dug the heels of my newly freed palms into my eyes. I was trying to blot out the image of her lips seeking mine, not because I regretted kissing her but because I hated that the kiss only happened because temporarily, those lips were not mine. I took a deep breath to steady myself and crossed my arms, saying, "Stop while you're still ahead, Kate, and I can take it as a compliment."

I wasn't even really sure what I meant by that; I guess that if she remained quiet, I could still pretend her kiss, her embrace, and her caress were all meant for me. But that was stupid. I knew it wasn't true and I didn't need Kate to tell me it wasn't in order to feel the harsh reality deep into my bones.

She seemed stung by my words and part of me was glad of that, if only for a second. But guilt and the self-preservation instinct are powerful behavioral modifiers. I wasn't strong enough to resist them, so I quickly gave her a carefree smile to show it was all a joke.

It was no joke.

And it hurt; oh how it hurt! I endured the pain, though, held it in and gave no outward sign that I was feeling anything other than my typical laissez-faire, nonchalant amusement. Inside, however... Inside, I was tallying the hurt in my muscles as I clenched that smile in place, the ache behind my eyes as I willed them to shed no tears, the burn of the bile in my stomach as it churned chaotically with the cruelty of unanswered feelings, and that sharp, clutching stab in my heart as it thudded on, despite its grievous wound.

Vince was speaking to me, tripping over himself to apologize, though for the wrong things. Only the wrong things.

_I'm so sorry, Jules. That was stupid. We really shouldn't have used you that way. I hope it's not too weird for you, man. I'm really, really sorry._

"No, really Vince, you can use me as your sex puppet anytime," I replied sarcastically, "as long as it's with Kate."

I could feel her tense next to me on that couch. I imagined her face was flushed as red as the garnet velvet upholstery of the cushions, but I didn't look at her, even as I rose from my seat. I didn't want her to see that bitterness was changing my carefree smile into a grimace, souring my expression by narrowing my eyes and drawing my mouth into a puckered frown.

_Jules, I know that was... awkward._

"Ha!" I laughed inwardly, perversely amused that Vince's typical penchant for drama was suddenly replaced with a masterful application of understatement. Awkward, indeed! How about harrowing? How about heart-wrenching? How about _infinite__ly cruel?_

_It was stupid of me to involve you. I know I need to deal with this... separation. I have to find a better way to handle the situation. I was just grasping at anything to bring me closer to her, even just for a few moments. I didn't think it through, mon ami, and I am so sorry._

Guilt washed over me once again, and then anger bubbled up, mostly because I wasn't allowed to feel the way I _felt_ but instead was dragged back into feeling guilty again. But how could I be upset about all this when Vince was facing an interminable future of volant consciousness, doomed to watch his love go through life without him by her side, worried she wouldn't move on and live the life he wanted for her, but also worried that she _would?_

As Vince spoke to me, I jammed my hands deep into my pockets, hoping to hide the fists that had formed involuntarily. I was just so angry, and I was angry that I was angry. I felt like a preschooler who wanted to stomp his feet and shout, "It's just not fair!" even as I understood how stupid that was. Stupid and useless, just like all of my feelings about Kate and all of my dreams of a life with her. But no matter how stupid and useless the feelings were, I still felt them. There was no help for it.

I heard Vince's repeated apologies and snapped, "Seriously man, stop apologizing!" then thought to myself, "You're only making it worse."

I walked over to the nearest window and leaned down to peer out into the courtyard. There was a clarity to the day that I envied. My mind was anything but clear. The turmoil I felt kept me paralyzed for several moments in silence but slowly, I recognized the need to salvage some dignity out of the situation (for all of us). Even though I still felt angry, that anger was not a raging fire but only a dull, throbbing burn. I could tamp it down enough to feel some sort of... protective instinct toward Kate. She was certainly embarrassed and possibly hurting, too; feeling guilty for hurting me, feeling hopeless about her relationship with Vince, and feeling confused about what had just taken place between all of us.

A small part of me, a part I was not proud of, wanted them to share in my pain, to wallow in it with me so I would not be the only one hurting. So that I wouldn't have to bear it alone. Part of me wanted to storm out of that room, leaving them gaping after me, flooded with guilt for forcing me to endure that... humiliation. But it was only a very small part and the larger (and better) part of me wanted to comfort my brunette beauty and reassure my brother that all was well between us. Life of late had dealt them some harsh blows, cloaking their joy with adversity. My own stupid attachments should not be allowed to compound their heartache.

I drew in a deep breath, closed my eyes and centered myself. The dull, rushing roar in my ears lessened and I willed myself to be at peace. I pushed away from the windowsill and turned toward Kate. She looked distraught, causing a pang in me almost too intense to bear. I walked toward her, controlling my desire to rush to her, take her in my arms and say, "Shhh, it will be alright. I would never hurt you. I would never let anyone or anything hurt you."

I couldn't say that, though. Those words were for Vince to say, not me. Besides, it wasn't even the truth. I hadn't stopped Violette from breaking Kate's bones, or from injuring her sister. I hadn't stopped Vince's murder from happening right in front of her eyes. As far as keeping Kate safe, I was batting zero.

Stopping in front of her, I allowed myself the briefest touch, running a single finger along the contour of her jaw as I tried to memorize its every line and curve. I gazed at the earlobe I had so often dreamed of nibbling. I marvelled at the smoothness of her cheek that I wished to press against my own. I stopped at her jutting chin on which I longed to plant tickling little kisses. My touch seemed to cause Kate to shudder ever so slightly, though whether from pleasure or pain, I could not say.

I sighed, telling her that I needed to go. And I did. I really, really had to get out of that room. I told her that I didn't want her to worry about what had happened.

"As far as I'm concerned, it's forgotten," I lied.

I expected to see an almost palpable skepticism on her face at that. A lie so bold and implausible would never be believed. These moments with Kate had seared themselves into my memory with the permanence of a hot iron brand against tender flesh, so forgetting them was an impossibility. It had to be said anyway, a sort of nod to romantic diplomacy and social decorum. Shockingly, she seemed to be buying it.

"I'm glad I was here, " I continued, "to help you two reconnect."

These words were also diplomatic but I couldn't be sure myself to what extent I meant what was coming out of my mouth.

"You both mean everything to me," I finished.

This, at least, was total truth.

I moved toward the door but was immediately mentally accosted by a worried-sounding Vince.

_Jules, don't leave like this. Come on, man... We should talk this out. _

I ignored him and continued toward the door then heard Vince sound suddenly demanding.

_Where are you going?_

I wasn't sure if it was concern or judgement that forced his last question, but it was too much for me. I had summoned what dignity I could in an attempt to make a graceful exit but was being thwarted by my best friend switching into mother-hen mode. My frustration with him was likely to blame for my words coming out harsher than I meant them.

"Where do you think I'm going?" I growled. "If it's not Guiliana it'll be Francesca. Or Brooke."

Brooke had left town a month prior, a modeling contract taking her to Milan. I wasn't concerned with providing them with solid answers to this question of my intentions, I just needed to show them how untouched I was. I wanted them both to see me as resilient and unphased. I wanted to be _Jules_, in all my Jules-ness. I was supposed to be the flirt, the rake with the artist's temperament, a passionate man who needed to satisfy those passions and who had a wide array of options with which to do that. I didn't wish to be seen as some heartbroken, humiliated, sad little boy. I didn't want to be seen as I was at the moment.

"What do you care?" I admonished Vince. "You just stay here and make sure she's okay."

Then I was through the door, pulling it closed behind me to block out the soft, filtered sunlight illuminating those aquamarine eyes, shiny with tears and regret. I couldn't look into those eyes any longer without feeling the crushing sadness they breathed into me. I couldn't stare into them without hurting Vince or hurting our friendship. I could head to my studio to paint them, though. There would be no Guiliana or Francesca tonight. There would be only me with my paints and my longing.

I smiled sadly at the thought that the Kate I painted on the canvas would be all mine.


	7. Chapter 7 Live For Me

**A/N: After Jules leaves Kate and Vincent at La Maison, the book follows Kate with no mention of Jules for the next few days until it is decided he should accompany the group to NYC in an attempt to resurrect Vince. There is no reference in the book to what Jules was doing during those few days, so I have given him his own story for that time. In order to flesh Jules out, I have created a little back story for him, which I only touch on in this chapter but plan to explore a little more. This backstory involves an O/C, who I introduce in this chapter.**

Chapter 7

It didn't take long to get to Marais on the Metro and only minutes after emerging from the subway station, I was climbing the stairs of my building (well, technically, it was Jean-Baptiste's building). I burst into my studio, full of nervous energy, needing to work. My fingers felt twitchy and my shoulders were tense. I needed to _do_; to _act_. If running were my thing, I would put on sweats and start running, not stopping until my legs failed me. But, I do not run, not as recreation. Running is for battle, for saving lives. I run toward numa, brandishing a sword. I run away from bullets, cradling a toddler snatched from danger in my arms. I run with a purpose but never, ever for enjoyment.

For that, I paint.

Images crashed inside my skull, begging to be brought to life on a canvas or sketched out in charcoal: Kate's eyes, looking into my own; Kate with her very Kate-like smile, half cocky self-assurance, half wry self-deprecation; Kate's slender arms, wrapped around her body in an attempt to create a cocoon with which to block out the pain of the world.

In mere minutes, I was mixing paints and attacking a canvas, attempting to exorcise these images from my mind. Kate's cheek, porcelain smooth and baby pink, appeared before me, rendered in oils. Kate's back, as I imagined it, bare to her waist, with its soft curve where my hands had recently rested. The hollow of Kate's throat, the arch of her brow, her knuckles gently pressed to her lips as she looked off in reverie…

I painted all of this on one canvas, images becoming more abstract as they jumbled together, mixed and entangled, marching from my fevered brain to my hand and out through my brush into the world. My usual artistic style these days lived somewhere between impressionism and expressionism, and I only dabbled in the abstract. Yet somehow I had managed to create an abstract representation of my chaotic thoughts and memories of Kate though that had not been my intention.

When I stepped back from my paint-laden canvas, wet and glistening after hours of work, I realized no one looking at this piece would ever be able to tell who my subject was. I studied the frantic strokes, the colors, the intensity of the blending of the images, overlapping and stacked and knew that though the _who_ was obscured, anyone looking at this could very well guess at the _what_ of my feelings as I painted.

There is a sort of fury in the intense, unanswered longing of the soul and it is hard to disguise.

After hours of painting, my hand was cramping and my neck was sore from standing at my canvas, slouching toward it as I obliterated the white of the surface with color upon color. I needed a break. My head was pounding; vaguely, I recognized that I hadn't had anything to eat or drink since the breakfast I'd mostly picked over at La Maison that morning. I was probably a little dehydrated and hypoglycemic.

I thought putting all my pent-up desire, frustration and jealousy in paint would free me from the tumbling, stabbing emotions crawling through my head and under my skin, and it had, but only while I was working. Standing back, surveying my work, sore, tired, and spent, the thoughts of Kate that had receded as they seemed to pour from my heart through my brush began to creep back in. My open, airy studio began to feel close and too warm. I needed to get out for a while. Hurriedly, I threw on my motorcycle jacket over my paint-stained jeans and t-shirt, left the studio, and took the streets of my city.

Night had fallen while I worked. I began walking along the street without any purpose beyond distancing myself from the studio and the claustrophobia that had struck me. Not particular about the direction, I walked with my head down, hands jammed into my pockets, paying attention only to the cracks in the pavement and the play of the streetlights as they shone along my path. After a time, I found myself weaving through a crowd on the sidewalk.

Curiosity took hold of me so I stopped and surveyed my surroundings. Throngs of young people stood clustered outside of the entrance to Crucifie, the latest nightclub to occupy this building. In the ninety-plus yeas I'd been kicking around Paris, this was the sixth or seventh club to occupy the space. I'd been to them all, from the jazz club of the 1920s to the supper club of the 1950s to the disco and techno clubs of later decades.

Of all its many faces, I liked Crucifie the best. It was part punk club, part dive bar, filled with people who left me alone to drink when I needed to be drunk and alone and appreciated me and my work when I needed validation. It was a conglomeration of other artists, punks, disaffected young adults with a few expatriate hipsters sprinkled in. Sometimes I needed to immerse myself in a pulsating, screaming mosh pit—Crucifie always obliged with live bands every night and the dancing horde of pierced, pale teen-to-twenty-somethings reliably present, buzzing with energy and alcohol.

This being the club closest to my studio, I was fairly well-known to the doormen and passed through unimpeded, a half-smile my only acknowledgment of their deferential nods. I passed into the dark, smoky bar, my steps accompanied by the hammering drum beats emanating from the far stage. Pink and white lights flashed on the stage in time with the bass drum's thump, drawing my attention to the lead singer. She was softly crooning, her berry-stained lips practically kissing the mic but as I watched, the song built and her voice became louder and more aggressive, ending in a thrilling note that was half-cry, half-growl. This was Ballet Féroce, an all-girl punk band led by the beautiful and frightening Clémence Durand.

Despite her slight frame and delicate features, Clémence commanded the stage, playing her guitar with more conviction than skill. She surveyed the crowd with her crystalline eyes and found mine looking back at her. Seeing her recognition, I quirked up the corner of my mouth and gave a small, farcical salute before I continued on to the bar. I was a Ballet Féroce fan but if I was to listen to a full set tonight, I would need some bourbon to dull the throb of my head.

Accepting my drink from the bartender ("On the house, Jules," he said, probably as payback for the sketch I had provided for him to take to the tattoo artist who had inked the latest bit of color decorating his right forearm), I found an open stool that gave me an unobstructed view of the stage.

"Thanks, Etienne," I said, gratefully sipping as I turned to watch Clémence and her bandmates perform. Initially, they had piqued my interest because, well, all-girl punk band, what's not to love? But I had come to appreciate their music. I had also accidentally come to discover my close connection to their leader which added an extra level of intrigue.

Clémence was the child of a French artist, a man whose work I admired, and a Nordic model, who had given her daughter her nearly white-blonde hair and piercing ice-blue eyes, though none of her height. For her part, Clémence had systematically disguised her fair appearance, probably as her small salute to rebellion and also as a stand against traditional ideals of beauty, which she could be heard ranting against after two drinks. He pale hair was dyed "Noir" which basically meant "blackest-black" (a dye-job I assumed was accomplished with some caustic combination of newspaper ink, motor oil, and battery acid) and she penciled kohl thickly over her eyebrows, severely defining their natural arch. The silver ring in her nose, her clichéd studded dog collar necklace, and her dark, berry colored lips all served to distract from her fine bone structure while the platform pumps in which she stomped around the stage disguised her petite-height by adding nearly five inches.

I studied her on stage, smiling inwardly at what a contradiction she was, movements full of natural grace punctuated by an almost palpable, violent intensity. This fit with her personality, the talented little ballerina who had finally put her slippered foot down at the age of twelve, demanding to be allowed to quit dance (after nine years of lessons) in order to pursue martial arts. Her final ballet class photo demonstrated this contradiction perfectly, showing a lithe, beautiful blonde dancer in traditional black leotard with a pink tulle skirt and pink satin slippers, her foot pointed delicately, arms swept out and up with enviable form, her grace marred only by the sneer she wore on her face.

I had seen this photo plastered inside her guitar case once. She confided that one of her friends had spied this picture in her parents' home and it had inspired the band's name. It also served to remind her that no happiness could come of doing only what others wanted her to do.

The memory struck a chord with me, reminding me of the circumstances which had driven me to seek distraction and a drink. But I wasn't trying to find happiness by doing what others wanted me to do, I was trying to avoid bringing unhappiness to the people I cared for most. It just stung to recognize that assuring their happiness virtually guaranteed I would have none of my own. I frowned into my glass, sighed deeply, then pushed those thoughts aside as I finished my drink and the band took a break.


	8. Chapter 8 Live For Me

I was still looking towards the stage when Ballet Féroce took their break, Clémence setting her guitar on a stand and leaping to the floor, no small feat in heels despite the mere twenty-four inch rise of the platform. She strode toward the bar where I sat and I took note of her manner of dress, part stage costume, part personal style. She wore all black, her top a sort of shiny satin strapless bustier over a pair of hot pants with a lot of stretch and sparkle. The fishnet stockings were ripped in a few spots, probably strategically, and around her waist was tied a multi-layered tulle train which dragged behind her. She looked beautiful and a little frightening. She was like a sort of glorious gothic stripper-bride.

In a few seconds, she had crossed the room and dropped onto the empty stool next to me, appraising me a moment before lighting a cigarette. She took a long drag and I had to suppress the revenant in me from acting on the desire to slap the thing out of her hand. The life-saving effect of the action was just too far off to make it worth the fight it would cause but it still it was a struggle. Clémence finally broke our silence.

"What's her name?"

"What?" I asked, surprised by the question. "Who?"

"Oh, come on Jules. I know that hang-dog look. I've just never seen in on _your_ face before. Who is she?"

I wasn't sure I wanted to talk about Kate with Clémence. Or anyone, really, at least right now, so I stalled her.

"Could you not smoke right here?"

Her eyes narrowed for a few seconds and then she blew a long stream of smoke just past my ear, never averting her eyes from mine. Her raised eyebrows and slightly tilted head conveyed perfectly her expectancy. She stubbed her cigarette in the half-full ashtray sitting next to her elbow on the bar and continued boring into me those ice blue eyes. As I watched the tendrils of smoke struggle to rise from the remains of her cigarette, I congratulated myself, thinking maybe I _had_ just saved her life.

Again.

I sighed and finally answered her in a mutter, "Someone I can't have."

"You poor bastard," she said kindly, placing her small hand gently on my forearm. She gave me a tiny smile, not probing for more details. That was her way—for all the external armor, the clothes, the hair, the gruff manner—she was a truly caring soul. She had been since she was a little girl, try as she might to obscure the fact.

I smiled sadly at her and placed my hand on top of hers for a moment, then looked to Etienne, raising my empty glass to indicate my need for another drink. Clémence gave him a meaningful look and without a word, he made it a double. I turned to her and she gave me a slight nod that said, "Drink up, you look like you need it." I'd never met anyone else so adept at nonverbal communication. I told her so.

"The irony is, Clémence, you're a poet. I'd expect you to tell me things in the most grandiose words possible but you do it all with a look."

She lifted her eyebrows and shrugged lightly, causing us both to burst out laughing as I said, "Case in point."

"You're just very perceptive, Jules," she explained. "It's why you're such a brilliant artist."

"Thank you. I needed that ego boost tonight."

She looked at me seriously for a moment then took my chin in one of her hands, forcing me to look into those crystalline eyes.

"She's a fool," she said simply.

I could have kissed her then, but I shook my head, causing her to release my chin as I replied, "No, my dear. I'm the fool."

We sat in silence a while longer, me thinking about how stupid I was to fall for a girl I knew loved not just another man, but my own best friend and Clémence thinking whatever Clémence-y things she thought when trying to silently comfort a friend and not smoke. She then deftly swiped the sweating glass from my hand, took one swallow of my drink, then set it on the bar in front of me. Giving me an impish salute with two fingers, she turned on her heel and was off, skirting the tables and patrons skillfully in those skyscraper heels. A few minutes later, the band was playing again.

The song began as a lilting ballad but soon built to a stream of hair-curling profanity directed at the ballad's subject, a sort of cathartic anthem declaring independence from the love that once held the speaker in thrall. I knew she meant it for me and I raised my glass to her in appreciation, but I wasn't there yet. I didn't hate Kate. I wasn't even angry at her, not really. I was just sad. And hurt. It was nice to know that Clémence sympathized. It was nice to have a friend who would take my side, just because that's what friends do, even if I was wrong.

The song was ending and the lyric becoming a soft lament. "You were my hero," she sang, "and now it's over."

I rolled the words around in my head, reminded of the first time I met Clémence. It was her "hero" reference that struck a familiar chord, taking me back almost two decades. I closed my eyes and could perfectly visualize that sunny day in 1995.

I recalled that Vince and I were having a friendly argument involving music, a favorite subject of ours about which to bicker.

"You're wrong, Vince. Ace of Base has staying power. I expect we'll be hearing their music for the next twenty years," I assured my best friend as we patrolled along the Seine. A volant Ambrose told us that all was well five minutes into the future.

Vince shook his head violently, his denial the most passionate I have seen him about anything in a long time. I might have considered myself the art expert among Jean-Baptiste's roving revenant squad but Vince owned the title of music aficionado.

"No, no, no, no, NO!" he insisted. "In two years, I promise you Jules, you will be embarrassed that you advocated them so strongly. They produce danceable tunes, nothing more. You can't honestly believe this stuff has staying power!"

"In two years? So, you're saying that by 1997, no one will care about Ace of Base?"

Vince looked at me incredulously.

"Jules, you've been listening to music since just after the turn of the century. You were _there_ for the jazz age, the birth of rock and roll, Woodstock, U2, _Nirvana_, yet this is who you believe will last? This slick, over-produced nonsense?"

His voice had risen a bit and he nearly sputtered at the end. I wasn't nearly as passionate an advocate for the band in question as he was a critic, but I enjoyed our tête-à-tête and I enjoyed tweaking him, just a little, so I pressed on.

"Nirvana? You're throwing _Nirvana _at me? Kurt Cobain shot himself last year! There is no Nirvana anymore! They'll fade away like every other short-lived act," I scoffed.

I nearly stunned Vince to silence but then he shot back, "I will bet you 100 francs that in ten years, you'll still hear Nirvana being played but the teenagers won't even know who Ace of Base is."

"So, in 2005, you're going to owe me…"

My voice trailed off, then in a low, urgent whisper, I said, "To your left, Vince. About thirty meters ahead."

Vince tensed, snapping his head in the direction I had described.

"That blonde in the short dress?" he asked for clarification. "The one whose scarf is blowing back over her shoulder?"

I gave a tight nod.

"What is it?" he hissed under his breath, squinting his eyes and sweeping the area around her for a numa threat. "Ambrose, do you see anything?"

Before Ambrose could answer, I said, "She's about to steal something!"

"What?" Vince asked in a confused tone.

"_My heart_, dude!" I cackled, a wide grin replacing my falsified concern. "I mean, look at those legs!"

Vince groaned and rolled his eyes and Ambrose's volant voice burst into laughter.

_You're not kidding, brother. And she has those pouty lips with the red lipstick you know I like. Man!_

"You two are ridiculous," Vince groaned.

_Oh, wait… uh oh._

"What is it, _mon ami_?" I queried.

_I just saw it-her very large boyfriend showing up in about five minutes. She looks happy to see him._

"How heartbreaking for you both," Vince condoled sarcastically.

Knowing she was unavailable, I lost interest immediately and slowed my pace, gazing out over the serene waters of the river. It was a gorgeous April day and there were throngs of citizens and tourists out enjoying the weather. We were almost to the _Pont du Carrousel_ when Ambrose's voice sudden took on a warning tone.

_Something is up. Head for the bridge._

Vince, unsure if this was another edition of "Babe Patrol with Jules and Ambrose", wanted details.

"What do you see, Ambrose? A runway model? An American sorority girl out touring in inappropriately skimpy clothing?"

_No, I'm serious. That little girl is walking on the ledge of the bridge. Everyone was looking in the other direction. She climbed up and she could… Oh! She fell in! I don't see her surfacing!_

I snapped my head toward the concrete bridge railing. It was low, easy enough for a young girl to climb on. I didn't see anyone on the ledge but knowing Ambrose's Volant spirit could see only a very short time into the future, I only had a few minutes. I started jogging to the bridge, Vince right behind me.

As we turned onto the bridge, we saw her, a young girl, maybe four years old, climbing up onto the wide concrete rail of the bridge. She began to walk along it like a balance beam, her fine, almost white-blonde hair blowing in the breeze. I could see a tall woman with the same white-blonde hair peering over the opposite rail, along with most of those strolling on the bridge, something obviously distracting their attention. The girl had taken the opportunity to do what children do when adults are distracted: something she wasn't supposed to.

I bit back my urge to yell a warning, afraid I would startle the child before I could reach her and cause her to fall in.

_Hurry!_

I picked up my pace just as the striking blonde woman turned and gasped, her hands flying to her face in horror.

"_Clémence!"_ she shrieked and in that instant, the thing I had feared happened.

The child's startled, ice-blue eyes widened and she took a small step back in alarm, but there was no more ledge on which her foot could gain purchase. I was still two meters away, too far to reach for her. She wobbled for a split second, then down she plummeted. I reacted instantly, placing my hands on the rail and leaping over it into air. The plunge was just long enough to be sickening but I hit the water immediately after the child.

"Clémence," I thought as I kicked toward where I had seen her enter the river, "where are you?"

I dove down beneath the surface into the murky depths and felt blindly, hoping I was in the right spot. After a few seconds that felt like eternity, I was rewarded with a thin limb, her arm. Hauling the child to me, I kicked for the light and brought both of us up, gasping. The child sputtered and coughed, then turned those wide, crystalline eyes on me and said in a shaky voice, "I fell in."

"Yes, you did," I acknowledged, "but it's okay. I've got you."

I quickly surveyed the area. Thankfully, river traffic was slow so we didn't seem to be in immediate danger of being hit by a boat. I threaded my arms under the girl's and grasped her around her chest, turning us both skyward so I could more easily pull her to the bank. Looking up, we could see the terrified faces of the people on the bridge peering down at us and her mother screaming down toward the water.

"Mama!" the little girl cried, but her voice was too raspy from her coughing and the distance back up to the bridge too great for her to be heard. To me, the girl said, "I can't swim without my floaties."

"Don't worry, little one, I'm going to carry you."

"My name is Clémence," she introduced herself as I began pulling for the river's edge.

"It's nice to meet you, Clémence," I replied soothingly. "My name is Jules. I'll tell you what, you just relax and I'll get you back to your mama, okay?"

She nodded her little head against my chest and I continued toward the near bank. After a minute, I heard her say, "I'm not scared."

"No, of course not," I breathed. You're a very brave girl, aren't you?"

"Yes," she agreed simply, then added, "When I get big like you, I'm going to swim great, too."

"I believe you will," I said, humoring her. Our conversation was keeping her calm but the crash of adrenaline, the swimming and the talking was winding me a bit so I kicked a little harder, trying to get us to dry land as efficiently as possible.

A crowd met us as I hauled the bedraggled child to the edge of the bank. Hands grabbed us and pulled us from the water and heard a woman sobbing, "My baby! My baby!" over and over as she rushed towards us.

"I'm not a baby," the girl answered matter-of-factly. "I'm almost four."

I laughed out loud at her pluck and her mother did too, laughing and crying all at once, reaching for her daughter, saying, "Oh, silly Clémence, you'll always be my baby!"

I handed the soaking girl to her mother amid cheering and clapping and pats on the back. The beautiful woman thanked me profusely but before Clémence unwrapped her arms from around my neck, she pulled her mouth close to my ear and whispered, "Jules, you're my hero."


	9. Chapter 9 Live For Me

I nursed my drink until all the ice melted, remembering Clémence as a child, her determined nature that was so obvious even during just those few visits allowed by Jean-Baptiste. Just a few short days after I pulled her from the waters of the Seine, I spotted her with her parents at a park and snapped her picture from a distance. I can't be sure, but as I turned to leave, I could have sworn she looked at me and gave me a small smile. Then another time, I saw her at her school, my volant spirit hovering high overhead, seeing her on the playground. She pushed down an older boy who was bullying a classmate.

"You leave him alone!" she had shouted, her babyish voice almost frightening in its insistence. She barreled into the older child with all the force her tiny preschooler's body could muster. She had to be pulled away and lectured to by a teacher but looked unphased. On the last visit I was allowed, I spied her out walking with her parents, on that same bridge from which she had fallen, but this time, her mother kept a firm grasp of her daughter's hand. After that, I let her go, not thinking of her again. It was purely coincidence that our paths ever crossed again.

Three years ago, I was in Crucifie, much as I was tonight, trying to relax after several hours of painting. I was frustrated that I couldn't quite capture what I wanted on my canvas, so I had dismissed my model and headed to the club for a drink and a distraction. I must still have been visibly frustrated because a lovely girl walking past me as I sat at the bar stopped when she saw my face and commented on my expression.

"Oh, my," she said with playful concern. "Such handsome features should not be marred by such a mean-looking scowl! What's the trouble?"

When I looked up from my glass to see a pretty, heart-shaped face with an expertly stained Cupid 's bow mouth and wide, chocolate eyes, I immediately rearranged my features into a welcoming smile. Of all the possible coping techniques for work frustration, flirting with a pretty girl was definitely my favorite.

We struck up a conversation. She was bubbly, flirty, and fun (all of my favorite things). Her name was Amelie Michele. When a variant of "What's a nice girl like you doing in a dive like this?" came up, she told me that she had a twin sister, Chantal (twins!) who played in a band. Chantal had come by to make some final arrangements for an upcoming gig with the bar's owner and Amelie had tagged along. We discussed the band a bit and Amelie invited me to come to their show the following Friday.

"It's a date," I told her, feeling definitely more upbeat.

Friday arrived in no time. I convinced Ambrose to come with me to the club to see Amelie's sister's band. Actually, all it took was two words.

"Dude, twins."

"I'm in!" Ambrose said, even though he was more of a blues fan and Amelie had described her sister's band as "punk." At least Ambrose wasn't as opinionated about music as Vince, so I knew he could manage to have a good time no matter how bad the band ended up being.

As it turned out, though, the band was pretty good, and as it was comprised completely of beautiful girls, it rose even further in our esteem.

"Bonus," Ambrose declared when he realized the band's makeup.

"Agreed."

We arrived about twenty minutes into the set and I introduced Amelie to Ambrose. They hit it off and soon, we were all dancing to some pretty hard-driving yet melodic punk music. I was panting by the end of the song and indicated to Ambrose that I was going to get a drink.

"Amelie, what would you like?" I asked before departing the dance floor.

"Oh, just a club soda, Jules. Thanks!" the perky girl answered. "Ambrose, don't think you're leaving me, though!"

"Yes, ma'am," he replied with mock gravity. "I'm at your service!"

The two began dancing to the next song as I made my way toward the bar. While I waited for the drinks, I turned and leaned back against the bar, watching the band. Amelie's sister was obviously the bassist because she looked exactly like her vivacious sister, save for some dyed pink streaks mixed in her dark, curly hair. The other two girls were unknown to me. The drummer, a tall, thin girl with cocoa skin and a gothic cross tattoo on her right bicep looked like a runway model. The lead singer (also guitar player) was the drummer's polar opposite. She was petite, blonde, and fair. She looked like a real-life version of Tinkerbell. She even seemed to be wearing the punk version of a little girl's fairy costume: tulle tutu done in black, black and white striped tights that called to mind Alice in Wonderland, and platform wedged combat boots that made her appear somewhat taller than she was. Everything about her was just… _pretty._ Even her voice was pretty; almost too pretty to be punk.

I took the drinks back to our table and caught Amelie's attention, raising her glass to let her know I had her beverage. She smiled at me and gave me two thumbs up then continued bouncing around the dance floor with my friend. She was very cute and seemed to have lots of energy, the perfect pick-me-up for the trying week I'd had. I wasn't quite sure that I wasn't about to loser her to my revenant companion, though, but I figured it was of little consequence—another one just like her was about twenty feet away.

Even though he wasn't there, I knew exactly what Vince would think of that sentiment. He would call me callous. Maybe he would even say I was a womanizer. I preferred to think of it as flexible. I never promised more than I could give. I never got my own feelings hurt and I always made sure that whoever I was with had fun. If there was one thing this unnatural long life had taught me, it was that if you weren't having fun, then there was no point of doing it.

Ambrose and Amelie crashed into chairs next to mine, hot and winded. Amelie took a long gulp of her club soda, smiling at me gratefully. I pushed a glass of water towards Ambrose, also known as Mr.-my-body-is-a-temple-so-don't-pollute-it-with-alcohol, then continued sipping my own bourbon and soda.

"What do you think of the band?" Amelie asked us after she had quenched her thirst.

"Awesome!" Ambrose effused. I assumed that he was happy to have a music he could move to, so that this outing counted as exercise.

"I really like them," I agreed. "I just think it's strange how pretty the lead singer's voice is. She has this great chest voice and a growl when she's doing that punk-scream thing, but she she's singing softly, it's just so clear and perfect. I like it, but it's not what I expected."

"Yeah, Clémence said basically the same thing the other day," Amelie replied.

"Clémence?" I asked.

"Yeah, that's her name. The lead singer," she clarified. "She said she was going to start smoking so she would sound better."

"That's crazy!" Ambrose declared. I had to agree.

"Maybe," Amelie allowed, "but that's Clémence. You can't say she's not dedicated to her craft."

"I guess," Ambrose replied doubtfully.

Later, when the band took a break, Amelie jumped up and grabbed both our hands.

"Come on!" she said enthusiastically. "I'll introduce you!"

We trailed along behind her to the stage where the girls were chatting about the set. Amelie hugged her sister and the other girls in turn, then began introductions.

"Boys, this is my sister Chantal," she said, indicating the girl who looked almost exactly like her.

"It's a pleasure, Chantal," I greeted as Ambrose nodded.

"This gorgeous drummer here is Mathilde Moreau," Amelie continued.

"Hi, boys," Mathilde said, winking. Her voice was sultry and she was simply stunning up close. I wondered how long it would take Ambrose to get her number. I would have liked to have had it myself, but it seemed rude to consider it since I was there at Amelie's invitation.

"And this lovely girl is my best friend, Clémence Durand," Amelie finished.

I heard the name and a memory came rushing back. _Clémence Durand. _But surely it couldn't be…

"No," I thought to myself. "It's not an uncommon name."

But then she turned around and looked at me with those unmistakable crystal blue eyes and I knew that it really _was_ her.

"Clémence," I greeted simply, betraying nothing, but my heart was pounding, waiting to see if she would show any spark of recognition.

Clémence nodded at me and then at Ambrose, showing us a quick, shy smile, but she said nothing and gave no indication that she remembered me. She had been very young, and it had been fifteen years. There was no reason to believe she would really recognize me. Even if I did look somehow familiar to her, logic would tell her I just reminded her of someone, not that I _was_ that someone. Memory is a tricky thing, existing as both truth and falsehood; stark details and hazy creation; subjective, worn thin and mutated with time. This was especially true of the memories of a child.

The moment passed without Clémence screaming, "You're the one who saved me! Why haven't you aged in the last decade and a half?" and I relaxed, grateful for the faultiness of human memory. Some people do remember things from that age, but many more do not. Or, they think they do but what they believe to be memory is actually some oft-repeated tale, a family legend from which they draw their knowledge, merely calling it memory.

Ambrose and I complimented the girls on the show so far and after a few more minutes of pleasant chat, they retook the stage and started up again. It was strange, but as I watched a grown-up Clémence on the stage, I felt a sort of attachment like I had never experienced before. It wasn't the obsessiveness that Jean-Baptiste warned us against. This was something different. It felt very _human_. I think most people refer to it as "chemistry." Whatever term applied, I left Crucifie that night with the strong sense that Clémence Durand and I were destined to be great friends.


End file.
